


Fortitude's Sin

by Oneofthepoisoned



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oneofthepoisoned/pseuds/Oneofthepoisoned





	

If my blood drips on my hand, and burns,

Then I surmise happiness

Because my blood is not yours.

____

He’s crying out of sadness, out of longing, and out of hurt. It’s so painful to draw air into his lungs. He cannot breathe.

He doesn’t know why he cries. He gasps and shivers and shakes, and it hurts. 

**God, it hurts.**

He wants . . . he wants somebody. He can’t remember. He can’t remember. 

He’s losing himself. 

God, help me.

* * *

The name Holmes pops into his mind.

He waits for more, but that is all, so he continues to weep. Something deep and dark overcame him, and Holmes knows his life was made for torture. 

And there’s no use crying about it. Sometimes, while the tears fall from his eyes, Holmes gets the feeling that he’s not meant to cry. Sometimes Holmes gets the feeling that he should be stronger than this place around him, and that crying is disgusting. 

But he swallows the thoughts that pop into his head and continues to cry anyway. 

He doesn’t even know how long he’s been in here; he doesn’t even know when he was born. 

Holmes can feel it in every heaving breath that he takes that this wasn’t the plan. Holmes wasn’t _supposed_ to be created. Someone else was meant to rule, firm and strong, but something – someone – must have happened. 

The devil must have torn the previous man from himself and created Holmes to take his place. 

Holmes is weak and pathetic, but there’s no use crying about it. 

He does anyway.

* * *

Memory is a fickle thing, Holmes decides.

He wouldn’t know the extent of it, for he has no memory of life at all. He thinks it strange that he has ideas of things that he shouldn’t have any knowledge of at all. Like a toothbrush, Holmes knows about it, but he has no memory of how. 

He doesn’t know who he is, nor where he comes from. He knows Hell, and he knows his captors, and he knows of the demon that calls himself Moriarty.

* * *

Holmes is absolutely, utterly petrified of Moriarty.

It’s a voice inside of his head - familiar and unhinged. Holmes calls him a demon, and Moriarty will cackle and say strange words that rattle him. Moriarty speaks in tongues and of windows that need closing. 

He is just glad that he’s never seen Moriarty in the flesh, and Holmes knows that Moriarty truly exists because his captors talk about him like a threat. They tell him that if Holmes doesn’t start talking then they’ll bring Moriarty in, and the man will do unspeakable acts to him. 

His masters don’t know that Moriarty already does. 

The demon mummers torture in his ear like a sweet love sonnet. He speaks of a man by the name of John, and though Holmes does not know this man, it causes sharp sadness to radiate throughout him. He speaks of life and how feeble Holmes’ is without him. 

But most of all, Moriarty speaks of Sherlock. 

_"You’ve been thinking too much, pet. Are you in pain? I can help that. I can make it worssse."_ Moriarty hisses inside his head, and Holmes shifts to cover his ears. It never helps, but Holmes always tries. 

_"Sherlock would hate you. He would think you a coward. But that’s okay, darling boy, because I LOVE you. Do you believe in me? Huhhh? Do ya?"_ Holmes whimpers as Moriarty’s voice gets louder. 

“Leave me alone,” mutters Holmes.

* * *

There are times when it is _not_ Moriarty that speaks, but something else. A strong, bold voice that values information above all things. This voice takes forefront above anything else and gives him knowledge.

This voice says single words or extensive sentences. It is one or the other and never something more. Holmes cannot ask this voice to speak more, and he cannot ask it questions. He is grateful for it nonetheless. 

It comes to him in particularly hard times of distress, usually when his captors become too restless with him. 

They call themselves his masters, and that is what Holmes is to call them, but in his head, Holmes has different names. There is one with dirty blond hair and broad shoulders; he has gnarly teeth and an ugly sneer. Holmes calls him Troll because his voice is gruff with years and years of heavy smoking. Troll speaks to Holmes with huffs and grunts, and he’s the one who Sebastian delegates most of the hands-on work too. 

Sebastian is his other master, and he is far civiler than Troll. He watches over Holmes with careful eyes as Troll doles out his punishment. Sebastian is the one who does the more careful work, usually consisting of carving ornate patterns into Holmes’ legs and torso. 

His words are carefully spoken and they come out slick as oil. He has similar hair to Troll, but that is where physical similarities stop. Sebastian is, for lack of a better word, _charming._

His face consists of perfect proportions, every feature balancing each other out. His eyes are a light hazel which matches his hair and beard perfectly. His skin is slightly wrinkled and very freckled, but it was nothing that could be called offending. Holmes can tell that Sebastian has the brains of whatever they want from him because he’s the one who mentioned Moriarty. 

_‘You’ve been taking the knife pretty well, but you should know that if you don’t start showing us some of that magic you got then I’m going to have to call in **my** master. The name Moriarty might ring a bell, eh pet?’ _

_Troll stopped adjusting his bonds, and he hesitated with a confused expression, ‘Seba – ,'_

_‘SHUT IT, YOU IDIOT!’_

After Holmes found out that Moriarty was real, he had had panic so severe that he’d passed out from pure fear before any of the real torture began. Needless to say, that he regretted that when he woke up. But he was glad for the experience because it gave him vital information. 

1\. That Moriarty was real.  
2\. If he survived, then he had a name for one of his captor’s face.

Holmes is roughly dragged from his ruminations when the door to his cell swings open with a loud clang. 

“Come on, little fairy. You ain’t been doin’ so well, but you’re gonna be talkin’ real soon. Get up.” 

Holmes shudder as he slowly drags himself to a stand. He wants to tell them that he can’t talk, that he simply doesn’t have anything to talk about, but Troll stares at him with an uncouth expression, and Holmes knows his words would be lost. 

He bows his head and follows his master slowly and painfully. Occasionally he stumbles, and Troll is forced to pick Holmes back up off the ground. Every day it gets harder and harder to follow Troll, but what can he do?

**Fight.**

Holmes flinches, and then closes his eyes. The voice tells him to fight, but he is weak and inexperienced. He is malnourished and dehydrated, with no strength.

Steal.

But steal what? There are no tools in his reach . . . but there will be. Once Troll leads him to the torture room, there will be many a tool that Holmes can use. Perhaps he can hide one in his mouth, and use it at a better time.

* * *

It was a useless thought. The voice told him he could fight, but Holmes is weak. The second they shackled him to his metal bed, it was over.

The pain overcame every thought, every feeling. 

He passed out, eventually, and Troll threw him on the floor of his cell without a second thought. 

Holmes cries, pitiful tears flow from his eyes. He wants to be free. 

_Shush, baby. Daddy’s here now._

“Oh, God. No, please, no.” Holmes covers his ears, whispering cries of abhorrence. 

_"Daddy’s going to make it all better, Holmes. Sherly wanted this, you see? He wanted you to suffer, so I could make it all better."_ Holmes shivers, he doesn’t want Moriarty. He wants the other voice to battle him off. _"I’m the only one who can help you. Don’t you LOVE me?"_

“No,” Holmes replies. 

_"Pity. I can make you love me, Holmes. Sherlock loved me, but he loved his stupid pet more. John, John, John. A little rascal that one is. Too bad, he thinks you’re dead. He’d come running in an instant if he knew that you were alive. I wanted to kill him, so Sherlock could know how much I really OWNED him. He could become mine **completely**. But Sherlock had to go off and keep him safe."_

“Shut up,” Holmes mutters. The tears flow more freely now. Why does Moriarty get to know his memories when Holmes cannot? 

_Sherlock made it so. I keep telling you that he did this. Won’t you believe me, pet?_

“No.” 

_I love you, anyway. I’ll kill that John. I’ll skin him and wear his casing like a new coat. I’ll keep his eyes in a jar and his lips on a portrait._

Holmes rocks back and forth, threading his fingers through his shaggy hair and tugging. Pain wipes out all thought, so if he creates his own maybe Moriarty will leave.

* * *

Holmes is growing more tired and feebler than ever. His masters are growing angry with him, and in their agitated state, they hurt him more.

Holmes knows that he is almost over because he cannot even feel the pain anymore. His masters have cut off toes and crushed his humerus, burned his skin and sliced it off like meat for a sandwich, but Holmes simply cannot feel it. 

When they do these things to him, Holmes closes his eyes and listens to the sweet nothings Moriarty whispers. It’s almost comforting, now. And Holmes hangs onto every word the demon says. 

His masters scream at him – they still want information, but Holmes cannot hear them, so Troll is forced to throw him back in his cell. 

Holmes knows now that he was created in a fit of terror, and that Sherlock was the one who created his life. However, Holmes also knows that Sherlock was brilliant, and the only way he would ever leave his body is if something, or someone, forced him out and took away his time. 

Holmes guesses that someone is Moriarty. 

Holmes doesn’t care anymore, he just closes his eyes and rests. 

**"Fight!,"** the voice says.

“I cannot,” is all Holmes says before drifting into darkness.

* * * 

He can hardly hear anymore, and the only time he talks is when Moriarty is telling him of his life. His captors have worn his ears weak with their yells, and even his own screaming has worn them thin.

He’s so weak, he can no longer stand. His masters drag him back and forth, but the torture is getting less and less. 

They call him a fairy and accuse him of holding back his magic, but he hasn’t the faintest idea about what that is. 

He is sure he will die like this, tied up like a pig for slaughter. 

Slaughter. 

The word seems familiar.

* * *

Holmes doesn’t feel pain, save for the ache in his heart.

He feels ready to die. 

How foolish he was, to have dreams of a hero releasing him from this prison.  
The man would have sandy hair and kind eyes, he would help Sherlock stand and save him from everything at any cost.

* * *

When Holmes wakes up there are dull, thrumming sounds that confuse him. He cracks his eyes open and realizes that if he can hear them then they must be very loud noises.

A high-pitched warble that sounds familiar startles him, a scream? But who would be screaming? Do his masters have other pets? 

Two bangs starts Holmes’ heart pounding. Sharp cracks fill the air, and suddenly he’s terrified. 

His hands scrape at the floor and he struggles to crawl his way to the corner. It won’t help if these bangs come for him, but the smaller he is, the safer he feels. His masters haven’t been happy with him, perhaps they’re ready to finally kill him? Or release a new form of torture unfathomable to him?

He shoves his head in his hands and rocks back and forth, trying to rid himself of the sounds. They’re getting louder, and that can only mean they’re coming closer. His nails scrape at his skin. 

Sebastian must have called Moriarty, that can be the only explanation. He’s going to hunt him down, and positively destroy Holmes. 

But not if Holmes can find a way to die. If he attacks them then maybe they’ll be forced to kill him before Moriarty gets a chance to get his hands on Holmes. 

The loud pangs stop, but then a loud pounding starts, rhythmic and stable. 

Duh Duh

Duh Duh

Duh Duh

The door to his cell is thrown open, and Holmes can’t hold in his scream of terror. Moriarty is going to kill him. He’s going to be hurt like never before, he can feel it.

**Calm!**

Holmes can barely distinguish the sound of the voice speaking to him over the volley of sounds screaming at him, but the message is clear, and the voice is right. He’s got to calm down. If he wants to die before Moriarty gets him then he must create a plan.

He cracks open his eyes, and slowly moves his head, careful not to reveal too much of his face. He sees two men, clad in heavy black armor carrying large guns. 

His stomach drops – there’s no way that he can attack these men. They won’t kill him, they’ll simply beat him unconscious. Tears roll down his face. He’s going to be _ruined_. 

He can’t make himself look away, so he just stares and stares and stares at the men who are going to take him to his death. But then, something strange happens.

The man on the right nods to the man next to him, and then exits the room.  
The remaining man sinks to his knees, and removes himself of his helmet.  
Holmes stares. 

The man says something, but since Holmes can’t hear it, he just stares. The man comes closer, and Holmes gasps and buries his head in his arms again. He cannot hear any bangs or pangs or rattles anymore, just a vibrating cadence that tells him that the man on his knees is still speaking to him. 

_Oh bunny, you’ve done so well._

Holmes begins to sob in earnest. Moriarty always comes at the worst of times. 

_What? You don’t like me? I love you. I’m going to get Johnny-boy, and we’ll be forever together. Together forever. Just me and you. You like that? DO YOU? HUHH?_

He sobs until somebody touches him and the world disappears.

* * *

He wakes up in a white room with noises all around, but it scares him, so he returns to the dark.

* * *

“Brother, please open your eyes.”

. . . 

“I can see your mind, Sherlock. What have you done? Be free of your prison. I am here, and Aahan is on his way. Just open your eyes.” 

. . . 

. . . 

“I can’t reach you. Please, breur, just let me see your soul.” 

. . .

Mycroft Holmes weeps for the first time in two decades. 

. . .

* * *

When Holmes wakes up he becomes aware that someone is holding his hand. Lips mutter soft words against his fingers. He opens his eyes, and knows the man sitting next to him.

The voice tells him the man’s name is Mycroft. 

Mycroft looks _awful._

Holmes knows that he’s never met this man, whispering prayers to Holmes’ hand, but on an instinct, he knows that Mycroft won’t hurt him. Mycroft’s skin is pasty and swallow. His face is wan and skinny, and his body is just somehow not plump enough. Holmes feels that Mycroft was meant to be fatter somehow. 

**He was fat. He’s been neglecting his food. Tell him he looks perfect. I’ve always bashed him for being fat, he’ll understand that I want him to eat.**

Holmes smiles softly. Mycroft’s hair is thin and balding, while his lips are taut. 

Mycroft looks cold. 

Like ice. 

**Say something.**

Holmes frowns. He hasn’t heard the voice talk in what feels like a long while. Why now? Why is it suddenly giving him commands? 

**Things have changed, I can help you.**

Holmes flinches, but Mycroft doesn’t notice. His brother’s eyes are still closed, and he grips Holmes’ hand harder, as if that will make Holmes’ cease from moving. 

_You can answer me now?_

**Yes. But not for long. Talk to Mycroft.**

_Who are you? Why now? Why couldn’t you talk before?_

**I don’t have enough strength to do this, just talk to Mycroft.**

_What? What does that mean?!_

No reply. 

Well, things _have_ changed, Holmes thinks bitterly.

Out of nowhere, he’s in the care of his brother, whom he didn’t know he had. The room he’s in resembles that of a fine hotel, and he’s been _ripped_ away from the only life he’s ever known. His masters are nowhere to be found. He can hear again, and the voice is finally talking back to him. 

Holmes supposes that the only thing that he can do is swallow his fear and curiosity and do what the voice told him to do – talk to Mycroft. 

“M-Mycroft?” Holmes wonders if his voice has always been this deep and baritone. His throat is itchy, and it hurts to talk. 

Mycroft’s eyes shoot open, and his brother gasps, gripping Holmes’ hand tighter, “Oh! Oh, Sherlock! _Tumhen shraap lage!_ ” Mycroft leans forwards and encompasses Holmes’ in his arms. 

Holmes blinks, awkwardly patting Mycroft on his back until he pulls away, “What happened? I can’t find you for months and suddenly you flare your magic that largely? Do you need Aahan?” Mycroft’s voice is nasally and superior, but his words show kindness that Holmes’ hasn’t known. 

Mycroft’s words also serve to confuse Holmes, “I - I’m sorry. I – ” Suddenly, Holmes doesn’t know what to say. Should he play along? Mycroft said magic (so did his masters) but Holmes doesn’t know what that means. Surely his brother of all people should know that Holmes is human. 

Unless . . . 

Unless before all of this happened, he wasn’t human. 

Holmes realizes that Mycroft is still staring at him, awaiting his answer, but since Holmes doesn’t have any he just swallows and says, “How can I hear?” 

Mycroft frowns, squeezing Holmes’ hand, “Aahan, of course. You seem off, brother. Do you feel well?” 

Holmes stares at Mycroft. How kind his eyes look. And for _him_. 

Something in Holmes’ chest shifts.

“I – I think there’s something wrong with me,” says Holmes. 

Mycroft stands up, placing a hand on Holmes’ chest, “Where?” he asks, concernedly.

Holmes grunts in pain, writhing away from Mycroft’s hand. Something in his chest cries out. He can’t breathe. 

Mycroft at once notices Holmes’ discomfort, and instead of continuing to hurt him – which Holmes expected – he removes his hand and takes a few steps back. 

The relief is instantaneous, but not all encompassing. The immediate burn is gone, but it’s dulled into a kind of tearing, and now Holmes feels something writhing, ripping its way through his chest. His breath comes heavy, and tears leak from his eyes. 

He looks to Mycroft for help, but sees a horrified expression in his brother’s eyes, “Sherlock. What have you done?” 

Holmes screams suddenly as the burning gives way to a cold so fierce he loses his breath. This pain, it hurts so much that Holmes can hardly think. Mycroft yells an unfamiliar word, and an Indian man rushes into the room, sees Holmes, and rushes forwards. 

Oh, God. It’s getting worse, how does it get worse? He feels like he’s being torn from the inside out. Holmes closes his eyes and screams for someone to help him. 

His chest rises off the bed, and Holmes writhes. Something inside him needs to be out. 

Warm hands push him back onto the bed, and Holmes loses himself in the pain. 

He thinks he begs Mycroft to kill him.


End file.
